Date Material
by BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Spike loves a challenge. Buffy never backs down. Now a carelessly thrown insult will give one of them a chance – her to get rid of him for good, or him to prove exactly what he's made of. A fun little re-write of Crush.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not own Buffy. any original characters, places, plots, or quotes belong to Joss Whedon and Co.**

**I've been working on this for quite a while, but didn't want to post until I had it all done. I think I'll actually dole it out though, maybe a chapter every Sunday? Reviews pretty please!**

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She should have been on her guard from the beginning. Dawn had warned her hadn't she? She'd told her that Spike was crushing on her, that he had started up some sort of sick obsession, but even when she'd gotten home to find him sitting on her counter and chatting easily with her mother, she never imagined it was real. She never thought his leading her to the vampires he suspected responsible for the train massacre would end up becoming… this. But as they sat quietly in his old Desoto in the back of the alley, the tension between them had become almost unbearable.

Buffy twisted her hands nervously in her lap, her mind turning Dawn's words over and over as she prayed that her sister was wrong. She couldn't be _right_. It was _Spike_ for heaven's sake! And she was the Slayer! There was no _way_…

Suddenly, he leaned forward, reaching one hand across her body and she yipped loudly, jerking back in her seat. She saw him roll his eyes in the dark but he didn't call her on her obvious anxiety, only clicked open the glove-box and withdrew a small silver flask. Buffy frowned to herself, unnerved by the fact that he hadn't teased her for her outburst. She watched him from the corner of her eye as he unscrewed the flask, watched his pale throat rise and fall as he tipped it up and swallowed. To her chagrin he caught her staring, but again, instead of a teasing jab or a snarky challenge, he kept his mouth shut, holding the flask out towards her instead.

"Um, eww," she said, looking between him and the metal container in his hand.

"It's not blood," he stated in an exasperated voice. "It's bourbon."

"Eww?" she repeated, eyebrows raised. _What is going on, what is going on…_

Her eyes widened as Spike started to tap long, pale fingers on the steering wheel, humming what must be the opening refrain of some punk song. The next thing she knew he was singing about anesthesia and asking her if she liked some guy named Ramone. Buffy stared blankly at him, utterly confused and terrified of where this was going. There was no way this was happening, no way that Dawn could've been right…

"Here we go," Spike muttered, breaking her from her panic.

She watched dumbly as he climbed out of the car and headed away up the alley, pausing to look back with a raised eyebrow. Shaking herself out of her musings, she jumped out and followed, passing him to lead the way up the rickety stairs and into the crappy abandoned apartment. As soon as she stepped inside she knew that something was wrong, and it wasn't the two vampires who leapt to their feet when she burst in.

"Slayer!" one snarled.

Buffy just smirked, a smirk that quickly faded when the two vampires turned and bolted, disappearing up a staircase and out a door. Buffy's jaw dropped in disbelief and her hands flew out to her sides in the universal gesture of 'what the hell?'

"Well that was just… sad!" Spike declared from behind her. "I'm embarrassed for our kind!"

Buffy's thoughts exactly.

"Should we go after them?" he asked.

Buffy just sighed and shook her head, looking around at the ratty furniture, the stacks of magazines and CDs, the pan of still-popping corn on a hot plate. This had all been a setup. These weren't the vamps they were looking for, and he knew it. Swinging around, she stomped towards the door.

"These vamps have nested," she snapped nastily, trying to put some distance between her and the vampire who had stepped in close to her side. "Looks like you've wasted my time!" _Please don't follow me, please don't follow me_…

He did worse than follow. He held the door. Skirted around her, cut her off, and held the frickin' door! Her brain ready to explode, Buffy turned on him with wide, flashing eyes and clenched fists.

"What is this?!" she demanded, her voice just a little bit squeaky with horror.

"Oh, uh…" he mumbled, stepping back and rubbing the back of his neck as the door swung shut again. "Wasn't thinkin.' Just…"

"What. Is. This." she pressed, staccato and harsh. _This isn't happening, this isn't happening…_ But she had to know. "Is this a date?"

"A, a date? Pft, a…" She got the feeling he'd be blushing if he could. "A – please! A date!" His voice went low and he laughed nervously, a sound she'd never heard from him before. "You are completely off your bird."

_Oh God I hope I am._

"I mean…" he continued loudly. Suddenly all his brash swagger fell away and he titled his head to one side, his eyebrows drawing together in question. "Do you want it to be?" he asked softly. Hopefully.

Buffy's jaw dropped. In that moment it was as if the whole world had fallen away, and she was just empty, the wind blowing through her and making her feel completely hollow. This wasn't real. Couldn't be real. There was just no way… She turned her back on him and paced away, trying to catch her breath and knock her brain back into 'think' mode. But the only thing that ran through her mind was _oh no_, _oh no_, _oh no_.

"Are you out of your mind?" she finally cried, her hands at her temples as she spun back around to face him.

"It's not so unusual," he said calmly, his tone low and even, what he must think of as soothing but what was really the seductive rumble of a predator. He took two slow, stalking steps towards her, easing forward, a silent prowl. "You can't deny it," he murmured, "There's _something_ between us."

"Loathing!" she declared desperately, trying to think of some way to pound it through his thick skull. Maybe she should hit him. But that was like third base for Spike. "Disgust!" she added frantically.

"Heat," he purred, the word rolling off his tongue as he took another step. "Desire."

Buffy shook her head in complete denial, darting around him and heading for the exit. She couldn't listen to this. Didn't want to hear him say…

"Buffy, I love…"

"Don't!" she warned, whipping back around to face him. "_Don't_ say it."

Pain flashed across his face for the briefest of moments, and as horrified and disgusted as she was with this whole thing, she hadn't wanted to hurt him. At least… not like that. She knew what it felt like to have those words thrown back in your face. Swallowing hard, she turned away so that she wouldn't have to see that pain, that hurt in him, but his voice stopped her cold.

"We need to talk about this," he muttered, twisting his features into a sullen frown.

"_We _don't need to do anything." Buffy replied woodenly. "There is no we." More than ready to get away, she moved towards the door.

"Wait, Buffy!" Spike called after her, "Come on, let's…"

"No! Spike!" she shouted, abruptly fed up and yet somehow amused by the absurd turn her night had taken. "Let's not. This," she gestured between them, "With you, is wrong!"

"Well, yeah, all right," he admitted, his hand going to the back of his neck as he ducked his head in a manner that was almost shy. "Maybe, this wasn't the best way to go about it, but if you'd just give me a chance…"

"The best way?" Buffy snorted, laughter bubbling up out of her chest. "This is _sad_! If this is the kind of thing you think girls are into it's no wonder you don't have a girlfriend!"

"Oi!" he cried, straightening up, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Please," she scoffed. "The late night stake-out, the bogus suspects, the _flask_!" She rolled her eyes, folding her arms casually across her chest. "Face it Spike. You're just not date material."

Determined not to let him stop her again, she turned towards the door one more time, leaving him standing mouth-agape behind her.

"Care to make a wager on that pet?"

His voice was icy cold and calculating, the words slow and careful, and they sent a shiver down Buffy's spine, freezing her dead in her tracks despite her determination to get the hell out of there. Something in the back of her brain screamed danger, but she was stuck in place as he slowly began to circle her, a smirk tilting at the corners of his mouth, his eyes dark and predatory.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded, turning in a casual circle in order to keep him in her sights.

"Come on Slayer," he taunted, still circling, still stalking. "You like to talk big. I wanna see you put your money where your mouth is. You don't think I'm date material, fine. _Prove it_. Cause I'm willing to bet that I can make you wrong."

"Oh my God," Buffy responded dumbly, "You really _have_ gone insane."

"Maybe," he shrugged. "But I still don't think you've got the stones. So, what do you say? Let me take you out. See if I can show the un-impressible Buffy Summers a good time."

The challenging yet hopeful tone of his voice, the vulnerability that he was trying to hide with brave words burned at her, but she still knew that she needed to shut him down, end this before she gave him even the scrap of a belief that she was being receptive to his advances.

"I say no," she declared. "Never. Not gonna happen Spike."

He chuckled darkly, his eyes flashing. "What's a' matter Slayer?" he asked, slipping around behind her and leaning in close to her ear. "Scared you'll like it too much?"

Buffy flinched as his breath tickled the side of her neck. Her mind was spinning as she fought desperately to think of a way out of the situation she'd fallen headfirst into without ever seeing it coming. She had to  
get rid of him – like, for good – and just saying no wasn't going to get that done. This could go very, very badly.

"Looking for a challenge Spike?" she asked, trying to keep him distracted while she searched for an escape. "Why would I _ever _go out with _you_?"

He shrugged again, the smile still hard on his face. "You tell me pet," he replied. "This _is_ a wager, innit? Name your own price."

Buffy narrowed her eyes. She hadn't missed how he'd conveniently worded the phrases, as though they'd both already agreed to do this. But why? Why would they? Why would _he_? She wouldn't make it easy, wouldn't let it be fun, so what would either of them get out of it? But he'd offered to let her pick her own prize hadn't he. So if she won, she could…

"If I win," she began slowly, her mind screaming at the top of its lungs for her to shut her mouth, to run away from this before she did something stupid and agreed to go on a _date_ with _Spike_, "You'd leave me alone?" The light in his eyes dimmed a little, his smile faltering as his shoulders fell. "You'd knock all this crap off; no more sappy Spike, no more declarations, no more following me around and pretending we're friends?"

He was quiet a moment, watching her with a vaguely hurt expression. But then he hid the hurt, and pulled his swagger back. "Fine," he stated. "Deal. But if I win…"

"I won't sleep with you if that's what you're thinking," she interrupted quickly and firmly. "So you can just forget it."

"What?! No!" he yelped, taking a step back from her as if in horror as he spluttered. "I wouldn't want to... I mean, not like…"

Buffy frowned, unwilling to think about what he was trying to splutter out. "Then what?" she asked warily, completely squicked by the thought of even contemplating sleeping with Spike.

"I get to take you on a real date," he responded immediately. "Just… just for fun. Not as a bet, not trying so hard to impress you. Just… to be with you. For one night. No slaying, no fighting, none of… this. One night without the vampire and The Slayer, only… only Spike and Buffy."

In any other circumstance it wouldn't be too much to ask for. She had a terribly odd sense of déjà vu, a strange memory welling up to the forefront of her thoughts; highschool, the year before she'd become the Slayer, a geeky young boy with glasses and acne daring to approach _her_, one of the popular California bubblegum princesses and ask her to the homecoming dance. She'd been terribly cruel then, putting him down harshly in front of half their class. This felt very similar. She could beat down Spike without a qualm, but the sudden appearance of the shy, insecure William jarred her, like being splashed with ice water.

Buffy blinked and took a step back. Was she really thinking this? Actually considering going out with Spike? What would her friends say, what would her mother say… dear God, she'd be the laughing stock of the demon community. Buffy the Vampire Dater. Ugh! But… if she won… This could be her only chance to get rid of him for good. No one would ever find out about his little crush, no one would ever hear him say he luhhhh… She couldn't even say it to herself in the privacy of her own head. And that was what clinched her decision.

Sticking her hand out in front of her, she waited until he took it, hesitantly and with questioning eyes, before shaking it once, firmly.

"Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

**Early update. I can't help it, I just love posting for you guys!**

**I do not own Buffy. any original characters, places, plots, or quotes belong to Joss Whedon and Co.**

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Spike was floating. Forget cloud nine, he was in bloody nirvana, and he couldn't keep a wide, silly grin off his face as he waltzed slowly towards the Restview cemetery. Sure, she'd agreed to go out with him because she was thinking of it as a way to get rid of him for good, but he could work with that. He worked better under pressure anyway. And this was his kind of game. High stakes, serious consequences, even greater rewards. If he won.

"When I win," he amended aloud as he pulled open the door of his crypt. And this was one bet he planned on winning, no matter what he had to do. Hell, he might even cheat if he had too. The Niblet would probably be amenable to giving him a few pointers…

So high was he on his good fortune, so bright the hopeful prospects before him, that it took him a moment to notice that something wasn't quite right in the darkness of the tomb. There was a scent in the air, light and familiar, recently left. Someone was still here. Eyes flaring gold in the dark, he took a look around, inhaling deeply to draw the stale air into his lungs. He could feel someone in the shadows, drifting lightly in the corner.

"Who's there," he rumbled lightly, his body falling into a fighting stance, ready to brawl if he had to. There was a fire burning in his fingertips and a good bit of rough and tumble might be just the trick.

"A happy memory, pretty Spike," a feminine voice cooed from behind his shoulder.

Spike's eyes went wide and he whipped around, faced with a vision of the woman he'd loved for over a century, his sire and his salvation. It was Drusilla.

"Look who's come to make everything right again."

It was her. Really, truly her, just like she'd always been. Half real, half unreal, in this world and another. She dragged a limp and tattered rose down her cheek and across her chest, and in the dark he could just make out the burned and bubbled skin there, scarred from fire. He could hear her talking, her voice lofty and light, but could barely make out the words, too consumed by the sight of her, his dark beauty, so long lost to him that he had almost been able to forget her. It was no wonder then that she would choose now to come crashing back in to his life, a comet searing through the stratosphere until it hit the earth and burst in an explosion of rock and flame.

"So, let me get this straight," he choked, unable to stand for another second the silence that had so suddenly fallen, "Darla got mojoed back from the beyond, you vamped her, and now you two are workin' on turning Angel back into his old bad self again?" He paused, his mind reeling at just how terrible of a plan it all was – and he knew terrible plans. Drusilla hummed in confirmation and he huffed a chuckle. "Sounds fun."

"It is," she smiled, stepping out from the corner towards him. "Like lollipops at the circus. Although…" she stroked a hand over her chest where the scarring cracked, "Didn't care for Angelus setting us on fire."

"Yeah," he murmured, his heart wrenching for his girl as he stroked a fingertip down the side of his own face. He remembered fire, remembered the pain of it. "So this has, what?" he asked, "Got you all nostalgic for the old days then?"

"I want us to be a family again, my William."

Her words hit Spike like a kick in the gut. Sure, there were nights when being part of the Whirlwind had been like life in his veins, and there were nights still when he longed for the close-knit world of nest and bonded sleep, blood-ties that only grew stronger as you fed side by side. But there were times when he had wanted nothing more than to get away, times when he would have gone to the ends of the world to escape the betrayal that came so easily in such a life. And the pain of those days had far outweighed the joy of the good ones. He just… hadn't recognized it till now, when he'd had a chance to be away, to live by his own rules and be his own person. It wasn't worth it.

"I don't."

The conviction in his voice must have shocked Drusilla, for she looked at him with the hurt and confusion of a child, and it almost broke him, sending him into spin of explanation.

"I've done the whole LA scene Dru," he justified. "Didn't agree with me. Besides," he took a few steps back from her, swinging his arms out to indicate his crypt, though there were other things swimming up to the fore of his reasoning, "I've got a pretty sweet little set up right here in Sunny D!"

He grinned. Didn't he just? A chance, a crumb, a shot, just one shot with a blonde goddess that could stake him through the heart with words and looks alone. But Dru could never know that.

"Not to mention," he bluffed, "All the tasty townies I can eat."

"Shhh!" Dru hissed, slashing her fingers at him, "You needn't make up stories."

He tilted his head. Shit, did she…

"I already know why you're not coming."

Of course she did.

"Poor boy. Little tin soldiers put funny knick knacks in your brain."

Oh yeah. That.

Dru's head twitched violently in a mockery of his pain. "Can't hunt. Can't hurt. Can't kill," she intoned, staccato and harshly honest. "You've got a chip."

"Right," he huffed. "So you've heard."

There was a time when he might've exploded with anger at the talk of what he'd become. And if he were entirely truthful, he still wasn't over it. How could he be? A shadow of himself, unable to fight, unable to bite, hell, couldn't even defend himself and give the whelp a little slap when he deserved it. But Spike was an honest bastard, even to a fault, and in his cold, un-beating heart he knew the truth. It was the chip that had given him this chance. Without it, he'd probably be blowing in the wind.

"I don't believe in science," Drusilla purred, interrupting his rather uncharitable thoughts about the Initiative soldiers. "All those bits and molecules no one's ever seen. I trust in eyes and heart alone. And do you know what mine is singing out?" She took two long, easy steps toward him, pressing her body to his and grabbing his hand to place on her chest, and to his surprise, for the first time, Spike felt absolutely nothing.

"You're a killer," she murmured. "Born to slash… and bash… mmm, and _bleed_. Like beautiful poetry."

Spike's fingers flexed beneath her hand, his breathing suddenly rapid as though his heart were pounding in his chest. That _was _who he _was_. Who he had been for so long. Was he really different?

"No little tinker toy could ever stop you from flying," she whispered tantalizingly in his ear.

"Yeah," he breathed. "But… the pain. Luv, you don't understand. It's searing. Blinding."

"All in your head," she murmured. "I can see it. Little bit of… _plastic_. Spider-webbing out nasty blue shocks." Her fingers skittered over his hair. "And everyone lies. Electricity _lies_ Spike! It tells you you're not a bad dog, but you _are!_"

Spike went abruptly still beneath her hand. Was he? He used to be. But… the chip had been the thing to stop it hadn't it? He'd just as much said so a few minutes ago. The chip, and the electricity, and the nasty blue shocks. If it were gone… Did he really have it in him to be different, so completely and utterly different… A blonde head appeared in his mind's eye, telling him the same; that he was just a bad dog on a leash… and then turning right around and giving him a chance to prove those same words wrong.

Spike lifted his head, a low growl rumbling out of his chest. No. It was Dru who was wrong. He _wasn't_ the same man she'd dumped in Brazil two years ago, and he couldn't call that man back, no more than he could call back the shy poet William she had turned so very long ago. Spike believed in evolution, adaptation; he'd seen it with his own eyes over the years. He had changed, and if he even got half the opportunity, he was going to keep changing. He just wasn't interested in changing _back_. If she had come to him last year, or even last month, the story might be different, but not now.

"It was fun while it lasted pet," he said softly, brushing his thumb over Drusilla's cheek. "But I think you should be hitting the road." Stepping away, he strode strongly to the door and jerked it open, gesturing her out.

Dru's eyes flashed with hurt and pain, and she took two abrupt steps back from the waiting doorway. "Spike," she gasped, her voice cracking as tears welled into her eyes.

And it almost broke him. He still couldn't hurt her. Not like that. Spike dropped his head shamefully, then moved out of the crypt and into the moonlight, suddenly desperate for a breeze, to feel the wind whisper over his skin and deliver him from this ache. Dru followed him slowly, tentatively, as though she wasn't sure if it were safe. Turning to face her, the trembling fear in her crushed his spirits, and he did the only thing he could think of to fix her.

"I'm in love with the Slayer," he admitted. "Dying for her. Drowning in her."

And of all the things he thought she'd do, all the years he's spent with her, she still surprised him.

She laughed.

Girly, giggling, hysterical.

Spike sneered. "Could do without the laugh track, Dru," he muttered. He knew what he looked like; a Master vampire trailing after the Slayer, a muzzled-up wolf making moon-eyes at sheep.

"But it's so funny," she chuckled, her hand coming up to point at the heavens as she gazed at the stars. "I knew. I knew, before you did. Pixies in my head whispered it to me." Her eyes snapped back to his as she went still as stone. "There's a little spark in you," Dru said in her ethereal voice, the words like a warning that sent a chill up his spine. "It's new. And it burns. So bright! _She_ put it in you. Doesn't it _hurt_ you, my sweet spike? Doesn't _she_ hurt you?"

"What are you on about?" Spike asked, a hint of desperation in his tone, the hair on the back of his neck still tingling. What spark? No flame, no soddin' _soul_, that was for damn sure. And how the hell did she know…

"Hope, my dark and deadly boy," Drusilla hissed. "Hope. Vile spark that burns like fire, filling you up so that you taste like ashes. Like _her_."

Spike could only stare, unable to refute her accusations. Because it was true wasn't it? Maybe it hadn't been then, when he had vehemently denied it, but he was full of cinders now, and he was loving every minute of it. No masochism, no tortured little games in the dark. Something much purer, cleaner and brighter than the likes of him had ever touched before. He was filled with the pleasant heat of sunshine that reminded him of summer, of… _her_. And suitably so, for it was she who inspired him, who half-way treated him like a man and not a monster, even if she didn't know it.

"We could fix that," Drusilla whispered, taking a step closer and jerking him from his thoughts of a more pleasant girl. "Could fix _you_. The sun can always be eclipsed. And what is that star when it's burnt out?" She looked at him then with a dark intensity that he hadn't seen in years. "Ashes. Useless bit of charcoal, no good for naught. The electricity stops you from pulling down the shades, but I could do it. Do it for my boy."

Spike's eyes flashed gold and he leapt forward, his hand closing tight over Drusilla's throat as he raised her up onto her toes and snarled viciously in her face. "Don't even think it Dru!" he snarled dangerously. "You don't go near the Slayer! Understand?" He shook her violently before tossing her away from him, watched numbly as she staggered back, finding her feet and hunching over as she coughed and choked, until she straightened and glared at him in horror. "There's only one way it would end," he warned. "She'd kill you… or I would."

Drusilla's hand shook as it went to her mouth, the tears rolling freely down her cheeks now. "My poor Spike," she whispered. "So lost. Even I can't help you now."

And then she was gone. Faded into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own Buffy. any original characters, places, plots, or quotes belong to Joss Whedon and Co.**

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Buffy walked home in a daze. She didn't see the street passing by around her, didn't scan the side alleys for those signature tingles like she usually did. Spike had been smart enough to take the long way back to his crypt, giving her a five minute head start and letting her walk home alone. Now she seemed to have shut down, her world shrinking until only a handful of people and a handful of things and a handful of words existed.

She was going on a date. A date with a vampire. With Spike. As Buffy walked, a sort of shocked, dumbfounded expression came over her face, one eyebrow rocketing skywards as her jaw dropped and her head shook in denial. How had this happened? What was she doing? A date?! With _Spike_?!

The only thing she could do was justify it to herself.

If she got through this, he was gone.

There was something underneath that, some small, cold feeling way down deep in her stomach that she didn't want to examine too closely. Vaguely defined, she let the idea that she was just used to Spike being around ease that feeling. And she told herself that if she got through this, he was gone. No more following her around, no more getting in her way, no more _saying things_… Stepping inside 1630 Revello, she hung her jacket on the hook and stood in the middle of the hallway, completely unable to go a step farther. Willow and her mother's voice rang out from her left, calling her name and her attention.

"I'm fine," she murmured, turning to face them, still feeling half out of the world. "I'm fine."

"What happened?" Joyce asked, guiding her daughter to a seat on the couch. "Sweetie you look awful!"

"Did he hurt you?" Willow asked frantically, sitting down at her side and grabbing one of her hands.

"What?" Buffy asked. "No! He wouldn't do that…"

"Oh right," Willow reminded herself. "He can't."

"That's not what I…"

Buffy trailed off, closing her eyes and shaking her head to clear it. What _had_ she said? "I'm losing my mind," she muttered.

"Buffy, what are you talking about?" Joyce asked. "What happened?"

And then all of a sudden, it was just silly, meaningless nonsense. "Well," she smiled, blinking at her mother and her friend robotically, "I found out that Spike is in love with me and we're going on a date."

"You're what?" Willow yelped, hopping back from Buffy.

"Buffy, you can't be serious," Joyce responded with concern.

"It's not like I _want_ to," she defended. "I mean it's… _Spike_."

"Well what do you mean, he loves you?" Willow demanded. "I mean, did he actually say the words? I. Love. You?"

Buffy grimaced. "I didn't let him get that far," she confessed. Maybe she should've. That… that had probably had been cruel.

"Sweetie did you… I don't know," Joyce began tentatively, "Unintentionally lead him on in any way? Send him signals?"

Buffy thought back for a moment. "I do beat him up a lot," she confessed. "For Spike that's like, third base.

"Well, I don't like it," her mother worried. "This could get dangerous."

"Hey!" Buffy frowned. "I can handle Spike! At least…" she frowned thoughtfully, "When he wants to kill me I can. And besides, as long as it's still 'chips ahoy' in his head, he can't hurt me, or any of us."

Willow looked at Buffy with frantic, worried eyes. "But," she said, "A… a date! I mean…"

"Yes, really Buffy," her mother said, standing up and crossing her arms as she looked down at her daughter, "I don't think it's wise to lead him on like that. And whether he truly likes you or not, it seems rather cruel."

Buffy looked up sharply, her mother's abrupt change in tack setting her head spinning. She was mad at _her_ now? For… for _leading him on_?!

"And dangerous!" Willow tacked on after a minute, clearly as confused by Joyce's strange concern as Buffy was. "There's no telling where this could lead."

"If it leads where I want, it'll get Spike out of my hair for good," Buffy grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

"How do ya figure?" Willow asked with a yelp. "If he thinks you're willing to go on a date with him he…"

"Will!" Buffy interrupted, turning and grabbing her friend's hands tightly in an effort to bring this freak fest to a crashing halt. How had this happened? Dear God, she was trying to explain a date with Spike to her best friend. "It's a bet! Ok?"

There was a dead silent pause, still and heavy as the two women stared at her with confusion.

"Huh?" Willow managed.

"What do you mean Buffy?" her mother asked more gently.

"I _mean_, the only reason I'm going out with him is on a bet!" she explained with exasperation. "God, what?" she demanded. "You thought I'd just go out with him for no reason?"

Joyce tilted her head and raised her eyebrows in a sort of manner that made Buffy think she thought that it was a remote possibility.

"Eww!" she cried defensively. "No! It… look if he loses, he has to leave me alone, ok? Forever. No more stalking me." Willow and Joyce stared at her in a silence that Buffy couldn't read, and suddenly she felt like she had to explain herself. "I… I thought it was worth it."

"Buffy," her mother warned, caution heavy in her tone, "This sounds like a very bad idea."

"Yeah Buffy," Willow added carefully, "I'm not sure this is… honestly I really have no idea what this is."

"I don't either," Buffy huffed, more to herself than anyone else. So she tried again. "All I have to do is get through this sham of a date and then I win the bet and Spike leaves me alone. Finally."

Joyce tutted. "Well I think that's terrible."

Buffy looked at her mother in consternation and annoyance. Turning to Willow with the hope of some kind of support, she found another frown waiting for her. Sighing, Buffy dropped her head into her hands, her face hidden by her hair. This was a mistake, a bad, bad mistake, and she didn't know what to do, how to fix it.

"What do I do?" she murmured.

"Sweetie I think you need to put an end to this," Joyce said softly. "I think you need to go find him and set the record straight. At the very least he deserves the truth; to know that you don't return his feelings."

"He's not supposed to _have _feelings!" Buffy snapped angrily, and Joyce frowned.

"I think your mom's right Buffy," Willow seconded. "I mean, bet or not, this _is _Spike we're talking about. I don't think it's a good idea to be giving him _any _kind of encouragement."

"You're probably right," Buffy mumbled, sitting up again. "God, what was I thinking?"

Getting to her feet, Buffy moved into the hallway and pulled her coat back on. "I'll go talk to him," she said. "And besides, you know, maybe this… this whole thing's just been blown way out of proportion and he's already back to wanting me dead."

"Here's hoping," Willow quipped, crossing her fingers.

Buffy replied with a wry smile, fixing the collar of her jacket and making sure her stake was still in the pocket. Glancing between Joyce and her daughter, Willow got off the couch and moved to Buffy's side, lowering her voice. "Umm, Buffy," she asked tentatively, "I was just wondering… what would Spike have gotten, if he'd won?"

Buffy paused, debating whether she should tell Willow the truth. No doubt it was much less gross or gruesome than whatever was going through the redhead's brain.

"It's not important," she answered finally. "He's not going to get it."

Nodding to her mother, she skirted around her friend and walked out the door.

It took her less than fifteen minutes to get to the Restview Cemetery where Spike was staying, and she took her time getting there. She meandered, stopping to slay a lone fledgling stumbling up the street, doing everything she could to put off the inevitable. The more she thought about it, the less this seemed like a good idea. She didn't think Spike would take it well, her backing out of their bet after she's agreed to it, struck the deal and offered up her agreement to the terms. No, she didn't think he would react well at all. Going through with the thing seemed the smarter solution, the safer solution; hell, even if he won, _which he wasn't going to_, she thought it would probably end better than this little powwow would. But by the time she hit the cemetery gates she was still undecided, confused and more than a little annoyed, and she knew that one thing that would make her feel better was to go a few rounds with the vampire in question. He'd be easy to provoke to it, and she could work off a little steam by knocking him around a little.

She had a second to reflect that that really wasn't a healthy way to think when raised voices caught her attention. Ducking behind a tombstone, she looked around the edges to see Spike standing in front of his crypt, the moonlight making his bleached hair glow. He seemed to be talking to someone, and by edging out a bit from behind the grave marker, she was just able to make out the dark, slim figure behind him. Her blood ran cold.

It was Drusilla.

Everything went still for Buffy until Spike's voice seemed to cut through the fog, his words floating over to her on the tiny breeze that trickled through the cemetery. He sounded a bit sad, a bit forlorn, and his tone made her listen.

"I'm in love with the Slayer Dru," he admitted. "Dying for her. Drowning in her."

Buffy swallowed, equal parts horrified and astounded as he made this confession to the vampiress who had made him, who he had loved and devoted his everything to for almost a century. A light, dancing giggle marred the incredulity of that moment, and the Slayer felt a bright flare of anger at Spike's sire for laughing, though she wasn't sure why.

"Could do without the laugh track, Dru," she heard him snap.

"But it's so funny," she said, her voice still the same; ethereal, dissociated, childlike. "I knew. I knew… before you did. Pixies in my head whispered it to me."

Buffy's eyes narrowed. She knew that Dru got visions, even knew that sometimes those visions were accurate, but had she really seen Spike falling in love with her? She couldn't have. He couldn't really…

"There's a little spark in you," she continued, and Buffy perked up her ears again. "It's new. But it burns. So bright! _She_ put it in you. Doesn't it _hurt_ you, my sweet Spike? Doesn't _she_ hurt you?"

"What are you on about?" Spike demanded defensively, and Buffy had to bite down on her tongue to keep from seconding him.

Cause those were her thought exactly! What the hell was she talking about? Buffy hadn't done anything to Spike, at least, nothing to do with sparks. Not since she'd sent him flying into that organ years ago and caught the church on fire.

"Hope, my dark and deadly boy," Drusilla purred. "Hope. Vile spark that burns like fire, filling you up so that you taste like ashes. Like _her_."

Buffy watched as Drusilla stepped closer to Spike, suddenly enrapt by the interplay between the two, so familiar with each other, so easy. As she moved forward, he moved back, a smooth and steady exchange over a century old, a dark dance between the dead.

"We could fix that," the dark vampiress smiled, so quiet that Buffy almost missed the words. "The sun can always be eclipsed. And what is that star when it's burnt out? Ashes. Useless bit of charcoal, no good for naught. The electricity stops you, but doesn't have its claws in me. I'd do it for my darling boy."

Buffy's stomach dropped. Drusilla was offering him a way out, a way to be what he used to be, _who _he used to be, and Buffy had no doubt that he would take it. Why wouldn't he? Not for a moment did she think that his confession of love for a Slayer would trump what he'd had with Dru, or the draw of murder and battle and bloodshed to a Master vampire, the Slayer of Slayers no less. And for some reason, that stung. Her hand tightened painfully around her stake and she prepared to stand, prepared to do her job and stop the return of William the Bloody even though she suddenly felt like she couldn't catch her breath. She was brought up short when Spike lunged forward, grabbing his sire by the throat and lifting her off her feet, snarling in her face as she choked and grasped, clawing at his arms as he throttled her.

"Don't even think it Dru!" he thundered, his rage palpable even from a distance as he shook her viciously. "You don't go near the Slayer! Understand?" Suddenly, as though he couldn't stand to touch her for another moment, Spike threw her away from him, towering over her as she coughed and spluttered, her hands on her neck.

"There's only one way it would end," he warned, his tone low and deadly. "She'd kill you… or I would."

Buffy clasped a hand tight over her mouth to stifle a gasp. There was no mistaking the sincerity of what he'd said, and it rocked her to her toes. He meant it; he would kill Drusilla before he let his sire hurt her. So utterly twisted and confused by what she had just witnessed, Buffy only just saw Drusilla fade away into the dark as she turned, sprinting out of the cemetery and back up the street towards home. Halfway there she had to stop, to bend over and clutch at her stomach as her chest heaved and her knees buckled, sending her down hard onto the pavement. For a long time she fought off what must have been a panic attack, desperately sucking in air as she tried to stop the shaking in her hands. When she was able to stand once more, she crawled to her feet and stumbled the rest of the way home, thankful to be greeted by a dark and silent house. Creeping up to her bedroom, she didn't bother with the lights, or with her clothes, or even with her shoes. She just slipped beneath the covers and fell into a light and troubled sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**I do not own Buffy. any original characters, places, plots, or quotes belong to Joss Whedon and Co.**

* * *

Spike spent six nights after his fight with Dru as drunk as a lord, stumbling back and forth between Willy's and his crypt, dropping as many bottles of liquor as he managed to drink. After getting completely pissed that first night he'd been afraid to sober up, getting it into his head that if he just _stayed_ drunk he wouldn't be stuck mulling everything around in his head day and night. It mostly worked, but every time the buzz started to wear off, it all came flooding back.

It just… it just felt so final. For the first time it had been him to walk away. Never, in over a hundred years, had he failed to take Drusilla back. Well, there had been that one time in South America, with the Chaos demon, but eventually he'd still gone back to her hadn't he? Love's bitch, that's what he'd been. But now…

God, what had he done?

This felt like an ending, and that was what scared him. It felt like an ending, _the _ending, and he didn't know what that meant. He'd turned his back on his dark princess for the first real time, turned his back on everything she' offered him - getting his bite back, ditching the chip, getting the soddin' band back together. He could've been back in black baby, and he'd said no.

He'd said no.

But it was more than that. He couldn't lie to himself, couldn't make it go away no matter how much bourbon or whiskey he spilled over his boots. He'd turned down Dru. For good. Hell, he'd threatened her, threatened to end her, really end her once and for all, because she'd threatened Buffy. He'd chosen the Slayer over his own sire.

It hadn't been a lie. He'd do it. It would… God, it would hurt. But he'd do it. Without hesitation, without a second thought - he'd kill her. To save the Slayer.

And that was it, wasn't it? He'd chosen the light over the dark, chosen Buffy and this chance at a new life over the old, over everything he'd had in a century as a Big Bad, and it had hit him like a brick. He hadn't planned to do it, hadn't known that it was in him, in his heart or in his mind, hadn't known that he was capable of such a thing. But apparently he was. Because he had.

Decided.

Done.

He'd picked his side, and it was time to start playing to win. He still needed to play it close to the chest for a while, but he had a few aces up his sleeve, and it was time to cash one in.

A cold shower worked wonders in getting rid of the funk and the fugue of a week-long bender, and surprisingly helped to clear up his head. Six days, six whole days to reminisce and mourn, and that was it. It was over. One hundred years of dancing in the dark, and after only six days he was ready to race the sun. And hey, things weren't all so bloody awful were they? Sure, there was a Hell god roaming around with a serious yen for torture, but he had a date.

A date. One shot at the Slayer, and he couldn't mess it up. He got it, he did. She wouldn't be trying to have fun. Wouldn't try to give him a real chance. No, she be bitchy and cold the whole time, holding herself apart from whatever they did, from _him_, in an effort to win their little war.

Spike chuckled darkly as he tugged on a clean pair of jeans and slicked back his hair. If she honestly thought that he'd scarper just because she claimed she hadn't had fun on the date she was already determined to hate, she was completely cracked. Still, he loved a challenge. The little blonde Slayer might be as stubborn as a mule, but he was more than a bit hard-headed himself, and he wanted to win this thing. It was more than the bet. He wanted Buffy to enjoy herself, wanted to give her a night of laughing and smiles, something he feared she didn't see nearly often enough. He wanted to share it with her.

Spike frowned, shrugging into his duster and patting down his pockets, checking for the keys to his deSoto. As much as he wanted those things, he wouldn't have a chance at them unless he won this bet first.

So. Down to business then.

It was a rare rainy day in Sunnydale, perfect for his purposes, and he had pulled himself together just in time. It was early afternoon, and Sunnydale high was just about to release its swarming hordes of teenagers onto the town. Spike was ready to meet them. Slinging his deSoto up to the curb in front of the school with a squeal of rubber, blatant in his rejection of a traditional parking space and his occupation of the fire lane, he got out and climbed onto the hood to sit cross-legged, lighting up a cigarette while he waited. Balancing his wrist on one knee, he blew out a stream of smoke and closed his eyes against the harsh shriek of the bell announcing the end of the school day.

Less than two minutes later a great rush of students came flooding out the doors, and Spike felt the instinctive urge to melt away from the crowd, to disappear into the shadows as was his nature. Shrugging it off with some small feeling of amusement, he took another hard drag on his cigarette and scanned the numerous faces, waiting idly for the Slayer's little sister to appear. He was getting quite a few appreciative looks from the young girls skirting his car and weaving their way through the lot, both bold and furtive, by the time Dawn appeared amidst the others, and he was more than a little disgusted by all the attention.

Dawn's face had paled when she caught sight of him and Spike could almost smell the fear coming off of her, so he shot her his best charming grin and was pleased when she visibly relaxed. The small group of girls she stood with leaned in close and began to whisper, a round of giggles ringing across the huddle. Dawn blushed and smiled, waving them off and heading in his direction, slinging her book-bag jauntily over her shoulder.

"Hey Spike," she greeted him when she got to the car, standing near the front wheel where he was perched. "Everything ok?"

"Sure thing lil Bit," he replied. "Need a little advice and I was hoping you'd take a ride with me."

A wide, bright grin spread across Dawn's face and she nodded eagerly. "Get into a mysterious black car with a mysterious stranger? Heck yes!"

Spike frowned as he slid off the hood, flicking away his cigarette butt. "Not making a habit of that are you?" he asked with real concern.

Dawn rolled her eyes and climbed into the passenger seat, waiting until he got in beside her and started the engine before she answered. "No, I haven't been getting rides from strangers," she said in an exasperated tone. "Having the Slayer for a sister kinda drives the whole 'stranger danger' thing home. But it's cool - this'll be great for my reputation. I might not go to school at all tomorrow."

Spike cocked an eyebrow in her direction as he guided the car slowly through the crowded lot, occasionally hitting the horn when groups of students lingered a little too long in front of his bumper.

"My friends think you're hot Spike," she said bluntly. "They'll think we're sneaking around, dating… making out. Ya know?"

"What?!" he yelped, jumping in his seat and hitting the brakes hard. "You're bloody fifteen! What's wrong with you bints?"

Dawn just rolled her eyes. "Wow," she commented dryly, examining her fingernails. "Been out of the dating game a while haven't you?"

"Oh bloody hell," he growled under his breath.

* * *

A week and a half after that night, Buffy had almost managed to forget about the whole thing. Willow and her mom must have seen something in her face that they weren't sure about, because neither asked her what the result of her talk with Spike had been. The vampire himself seemed to be laying low – Buffy'd seen neither hide nor bleached blonde hair of the menace since the confrontation with Dru in the cemetery. She'd been worried at first; thought that maybe she should check on him, make sure he hadn't done something stupid, changed his mind and run off to get his chip removed and get his Big Bad back on. That night had played hell with her mind – she couldn't imagine what it had done to his.

She'd shaken the feeling fast. There was no way she could have broached the subject without revealing that she'd seen the whole thing, and she would've been… she would've been _scared _to do that. She'd stumbled into something deeply personal that night, something she shouldn't have seen, had no right to see. And it had… well, it had freaked her out, and forgetting about it seemed the best option.

So she had. Buried it, all the things she'd heard and all the things it meant in the very back of her mind where it would hopefully never see the light of day again. Thankfully she had other things to focus on; Glory, for example. And God wasn't that a sad, sorry state of affairs? That she was thankful for the negative attentions of a wrathful, pissed-off Hell god because it meant that she didn't have to think about Spike.

Strangely, said wrathful, pissed-off Hell god seemed to be laying low in recent days as well. The Hellmouth had been quiet, eerily quiet, and Buffy feared that this might be the calm before the storm, the steady, silent warning before the boom. She and the Scoobies had been hitting the books double time, desperate to find something, _anything_ that would help her in the fight that she could feel building just over the next rise. It prickled at the hair on her arms, hung over the back of her neck like a heavy black cloud, waiting. The end of the world, all the demon armies of hell, those she could face down without a shiver, but the quiet? The calm? Those things made her nervous.

A week and a half. She thought she'd gotten away with it. Thought it was over. Hoped, prayed that Spike would just let it drop, deal with his own issues and leave her alone. Of course, she wasn't so lucky. A whole week and a half later, and she came home from patrol to find a note slipped into the crack of the door jamb. She was exhausted from a short battle earlier that night, covered in a thin yellow goo from the oozy, drippy, blob-shaped thing that had exploded when she swung her short-sword through it, and she wanted nothing more than to get home, strip off, and scrub down, but the sight of that thick, tri-folded letter stopped her dead.

She approached it slowly, like she might a rattlesnake, roundabout and cautious. She reached for it twice before she pulled it from the door, surprised by the weight of the paper, parchment really, a softly-textured, cream colored parchment. She ran her fingertips over the sharp creases, tested the weight of it in her palms… She knew it was from Spike, didn't have to read it to know. Turning the letter over, she admired the delicate curving strokes of rich black ink that spelled her name across the front of it. It was a lovely calligraphy, something that surprised her – she would have expected Spike to write in harsh, slashing lines that pressed heavily on the paper.

Unable to stall any longer, she carefully unfolded the paper and found herself torn between dread and a strange, warm feeling jumping around in her belly that might have been… _anticipation_ if she let it. There were only five words on the page; short, direct, brooking no argument in his flowing black script.

_**Friday. Ten o'clock. I'll patrol.**_

Buffy folded the letter back up and sat down on the porch steps, staring out into the night. For a minute she was quiet, just watching the stars and listening to the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze, letting her mind go still, letting it all fall away. Just a minute, and she was calm. Relaxed. Empty. Weird, right? She had always been the queen of over-thinking it, of ruminating on mistakes and agonizing over what could have been. Now? Tonight? She let it go.

It was the burnt sugar smell coming from her gummy, gooey clothes that broke the spell, forcing her to her feet with a sigh as she shrugged out of her jacket, careful not to get anything sticky on the letter. It had been a long time since she'd gotten a little note from anyone, and even though it had come from Spike, even though it was a brusque, rude demand, for some reason she wanted to keep it safe. On the way to the shower she stopped by her room, opening the false bottom of her weapons chest. Slipping the letter inside, she closed the lid and locked it tight.


	5. Chapter 5

**I'd like to take a minute to thank everyone who continues to read and review, and to all of you who keep asking for more! I love knowing that you guys look forward to updates so much! I know that as I start my dissertation they've become few and far between, so again, thanks for hanging in there. I'll do my best to keep up.**

**Again, I do not own Buffy. Any original characters, places, plots, or quotes belong to Joss Whedon and Co.**

* * *

Friday came far too soon for Buffy, and the closer it got, the more anxious she became. She still hadn't seen or heard from the vampire in question, not since the note, and a thousand possibilities of what might come had begun to run through her mind, making her feel unsettled and worried. The Scoobies had made mention of her distraction a few different times but she had brushed them off easily enough, and she'd even experienced some small good fortune – her mother would be away on business that weekend, which meant she wouldn't be facing the third degree before or after this fiasco.

She was going to get away with it.

Oh, how wrong she was.

Nine o'clock found her on the couch in her sweats, trying to lounge in front of some old cartoons, but she couldn't stop herself from glancing at the clock every five minutes or so. As the time ticked away, closer and closer to ten she began to bite her fingernails and shift nervously, distracted from the television. She briefly considered going out on a patrol, sure that she could swing a route that would allow her to avoid Spike, both in the cemeteries and at home if she left now. It seemed the best solution to getting rid of her nervous butterflies, so she climbed to her feet and headed for the stairs, intent on a change of clothes. She hadn't even hit the first riser when she was caught.

"Oh. My God."

Dawn stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at Buffy with an expression of horrified disbelief, her hands on her hips.

"_How_ have you not started getting ready yet?"

Buffy's eyes went wide with horror and she gulped. "You know?" she asked miserably. "How do you know?!" A jolt went through her and she narrowed her eyes. "What did he tell you?"

"Oh relax Buffy," Dawn replied, rolling her eyes and crossing her fingers behind her back where her sister couldn't see. "He just asked me what night you were free. Now seriously, you've got less than an hour before he picks you up and it'll take you twice that long to get ready, so chop chop!"

Buffy frowned as she trudged slowly up the stairs. "Listen Dawn, I don't know what Spike told you but this isn't… this isn't a date, ok? We're just… patrolling! Yeah, we're gonna go check out another vamp nest he found."

"Yeah, uh-huh," Dawn countered smugly, folding her arms as she followed Buffy into her bedroom.

It was obvious that the teenager didn't believe her, and Buffy didn't have the energy or the inclination to keep up the charade. It had been half-hearted anyway; she never thought that she could convince Dawn there was nothing suspicious about this whole thing. Especially if Spike had talked to her, which was sounding like a distinct possibility. Dropping down on the stool in front of her vanity, Buffy took quick stock of her appearance. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks just a tiny bit flush, and she couldn't decide if it was a look of fear or excitement.

She thought that perhaps it was both.

She was slowly coming to realize that she didn't know Spike as well as she thought she did. She certainly didn't know this thing that was going on between them. However, if there was one thing she _did _know after these past few years, after coming to accept her role and her life as the Slayer, it was herself. Spike being an unknown variable made him dangerous, made a fight almost inevitable.

And for Buffy, the fight was the thing.

Fighting, slaying, a good battle, those things were exciting for her. She enjoyed what she did, the rush, the combat, the burning adrenaline. She never backed down, not from anything, and she took a certain pride in that. It was who she was, strong, brave, ready to stand toe to toe with anyone and anything. And that included Spike.

Buffy gave the mirror her best war face and picked up her hairbrush.

"Ok, so I'm thinking you've got three options," Dawn called from deep in the closet, her voice muffled. "Option one: little black dress." Said garment came flying out to land on the bed. "Classic, though somewhat clichéd. Option two: leather pants and a halter top. Says 'I'm dangerous and that's sexy.' Think Faith, but less psychotic." These items too came flying out to land on the foot of the mattress. "And finally, option three." Dawn finally emerged, climbing over a mountain of shoes and discarded clothes with two pieces in her hands. "Lacy skirt and an off the shoulder top. Green silk, paired with flats and a jean jacket. A little soft for you, but seriously cute, and this color looks great with your hair."

Buffy stared at her sister in the mirror, totally dumbfounded, her hands frozen in her hair as she pulled it into a rough ponytail. _What the hell had Spike told her?! _"Dawn," she said firmly, "I am _not _dressing up for this, ok? No dresses, no makeup…" Turning back to the mirror, she frowned. "I shouldn't be going at all," she muttered under her breath.

"Seriously" Dawn asked in amazement, raising her eyebrows in disbelief. "All I know is that if a hot guy was taking _me_ out on a date, I'd be putting a little more effort into it. I mean, do you _want_ Spike to think you're a total slob?"

"If it gets him to leave me alone," Buffy mumbled. "And it's not some hot guy!" She cast Dawn her most intimidating glare. "It's… Spike." She shuddered her shoulders for emphasis.

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Right. And he's _real_ hard on the eyes. Remind me, _why _are you going out with him again?" She sat down on the edge of the bed and crossed one knee over the other, watching her sister in the mirror. She abruptly dropped her light and playful tone, sadness leaching into the set of her shoulders. "He really likes you Buffy," she said softly. "Are you… I mean… you're not just doing this to hurt his feelings, are you?"

"Spike is _evil_ Dawn," Buffy said firmly as she slicked on a light coating of lip gloss, trying to drive the point home. "He doesn't feel things like you and me do." Despite her adamancy that she wouldn't be taking any extra steps to dress up, she traced on a tiny amount of eyeliner.

"That's such crap," Dawn scoffed. "Why would he stay with Drusilla for one hundred years if he didn't love her? I mean, _no one_ could stand her for that long if they weren't seriously committed. And for that matter, why has he hung around _you_ for so long if he doesn't like you?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Buffy snapped, climbing from her stool to face her sister as she quickly shucked her sweats and pulled on a pair of dark blue denim jeans.

"Face it Buffy," she replied with a grim twist of her mouth, "When it comes to Spike, you're a total bitch. If I were him, I wouldn't put up with _half_ the crap he does."

Buffy's head popped out of the long-sleeved shirt she tugged on, a striped navy-and-grey number in soft cotton that she rarely wore. "What crap Dawn?" she demanded. "It's not like I go around threatening to stake the guy anymore. And I only hit him when he deserves it. Jeez! I can't believe you're on _my _case about this. This is William the Bloody, remember? The only reason he's not killing all of us is the chip!"

Dawn jumped to her feet and crossed her arms. "You know, you're so big on him only being good because he's got the chip now, but that's not stopping him from burning down our house, or cutting Xander's brakes, or hiring a bunch of demons to gang up and beat the crap out of you! And it certainly doesn't stop him from just getting the heck out of dodge and finding a girlfriend who actually likes him back. Or even just tolerates him better than you."

"Oh my God," Buffy murmured, and for a minute Dawn thought she might have gotten through to her sister, but her next sentence belied that hope. "You've… you've actually been thinking about this! Should I be worried about you?"

"The _point_," Dawn stated, "Is that the chip stops him from directly hurting you. Everything else is his choice. So why does he _choose _to stay and help when _you_ choose to treat him like trash? Which, I might add, he is _not_!"

Buffy opened her mouth to defend herself, but at that moment, a light knock sounded at the door and Dawn leapt from the bed, a huge smile on her face, her mood flipping like a light switch. "He's here!" she squealed, bouncing out of the room. "I'll go let him in," she called over her shoulder. "Hurry up!"

Dawn bounded down the stairs with a spring in her step, a grin plastered over her face. Her sister might be doing this for all the wrong reasons, might be in total denial even, but she was doing it, and that was a start. Dawn didn't doubt Spike for a minute; if Buffy gave him this one inch, he would work it for all it was worth until he got a mile. And of course, if there was anything more _she_ could do to help, she'd be more than happy to do whatever she could. Executing a quick little happy dance in the foyer, she grabbed the door and pulled it open with a flourish.

Huh.

Well, it didn't look like he had taken all that much of her advice.

Spike stepped through the door with hesitancy, dressed in his usual outfit of black on black on black. She'd warned him that Buffy would prefer a little color, but here he was in his duster and his combat boots, his hair slicked back against his head, just like always. In his hand he carried a single flower, a pink rose. She'd explicitly told him _not _to bring roses – her sister thought them clichéd, and well, after the Angelus fiasco…

She caught him staring up the stairs before he turned back to her.

"Spike?" she began cautiously, not wanting to hurt his feelings or make him more nervous than he already was, "A rose?"

Not a good start.

* * *

Spike grinned at the nervousness in the teenager's stance. He knew what was causing her anxiety; certainly to her it must appear that her advice had gone in one of his ears and right back out the other. In truth their hour spent parked at the drive-through ice cream place halfway between the Hellmouth and the house on Revello Drive had proved quite enlightening for the vampire. He'd gotten a few good tips and some general information that had really kicked off his plans for tonight, but most importantly, he'd caught the slip that Dawn had made around bites of a super-sized banana split.

The Slayer talked about him.

A lot.

He wasn't stupid, he was sure that most of it was bitching and moaning, but he was there, in the conversation, in the back of her mind, and that was enough to put a smile on his face. He looked up the staircase towards the landing where he could hear Buffy moving around, her heart beating just a little too fast, and he grinned. He was _here_ too. Right here, right now, waiting for her. In just minutes, she would come down that stairwell, and it would be _him _waiting.

"Spike?"

Dawn spoke his name cautiously, and he turned to her, eager to allay any fears she might have, but he needn't have worried. Her concern was for him.

"A rose?"

Spike grinned. "For you little Bit," he said, tossing her a wink.

She'd advised him towards orchids, explaining that her sister had a passion for the colorful flowers that were so hard to grow on the Hellmouth because of the salt-laden breeze coming in from the coast. She'd somehow managed to name her own favorite at the same time, and the way her eyes lit up as she took the flower from him was well worth the four quid it had cost him for the long-stemmed bloom.

"Wanted to thank you for your help."

Dawn smiled, stroking the velvet outer petals with a fingertip. Then she looked up at him and her smile changed to a frown. "But… I mean, you didn't…"

"Took every word to heart luv," he reassured her, laying an open palm over his chest. "But with your sister, think sometimes you gotta read between the lines." Turning around, his gaze moved back up the stairs and he instinctively widened his stance, his duster swaying around his ankles as he cocked back his shoulders. He didn't know that he did it, didn't realize that he shifted into a defensive stance, a fighting stance whenever he thought about her. "She thinks she knows exactly what she wants," he murmured. "The whole normal-girl routine." He chuckled under his breath. "Like she tried with Captain Cardboard," He turned back to Dawn and gave her a wicked smile.

"Figured if I wanna impress the Slayer, I'm gonna have to show her that she doesn't have _a clue_ what she wants."

"Spike."

His own name fell on his ears hard and cold and he turned on his heel sharply to find said Slayer at the top of the stairs, looking down with a totally unreadable expression. She was dressed down in jeans and a striped, long-sleeved tee, her hair up in a tail and her make-up light, but it didn't faze him. He had hardly expected her to dress up, and in the end it didn't matter. She was beautiful, and she was walking down the stairs to _him_.

All he could do was stare.


	6. Chapter 6

She was tense, as tight as a watch in the passenger's seat, pressed as close to the door and as far from him as she could possibly get. He, on the other hand, seemed as confidant and relaxed as he ever was, slouched low under the heavy dash, the fingers of one hand curled loosely around the steering wheel, the other stretched halfway across the wide bench seat towards her, resting possessively on the gear shift as he maneuvered the big car smoothly through the dark streets. She thought she might hate him for that, right then in that moment, for being so calm where she felt as though she were about to snap herself in two.

He'd mostly ignored her since they'd gotten into the car. She'd expected something, well, _more _from him. He'd shown up in the same old boots and duster, staring up at her from the bottom of the stairs with a look like… She didn't know why he was looking at her that way. But she thought that at the very least he would open the deSoto's door for her the way he had at that back-alley vamp nest. Instead, he'd only waited for her to climb in herself, turning the crackly radio to a late-night punk rock station and lowering the volume until it just barely filled the silence between them. Occasionally he would murmur a bit of some song when he was making a turn or pausing at a stoplight, much like he had last week, but it felt different, less forced, as though he were simply at ease and just distracted enough to hum along.

But he didn't look at her. Didn't talk, which he _always _did, didn't ask her what music _she_ liked. No, he just left her to stew, and suddenly it was all just plain funny. She was on a date, with _Spike_ of all people, who said he loved her and who refused to acknowledge her at all, just looked ahead through the cracked, dirty windshield as he drove them across town and away from the Hellmouth.

So she laughed.

It was a half-hysterical, disbelieving sort of laugh, but it was still a full, raucous one that felt more real than any she'd heard out of herself in a long time. She was on a date. With Spike. And where she had expected him to show up with roses and treat her like a queen, he was ignoring her. From the corner of her eye she could see him smirking as he continued looking dead ahead, but she just didn't care, and he was smart enough to wait until she'd gotten it all out of her system and was huffing to catch her breath before he spoke.

"Feel better Slayer?" he asked.

"Oh shut up Spike," she replied, but her tone was light and easy, a smile tilting at the edges of her mouth and softening the sting of the words that were usually so caustic where he was concerned. There was no way he could've known that she needed to work that bit of nonsense out on her own, and even if he had, well, it didn't really matter.

The vampire himself chuckled his own little laugh, the sort that made her feel like he was entirely unsurprised by her jag or the words that had followed it, but that was all - he said no more. Instead, he flicked on his blinker and pulled into a packed parking lot, circling once before wedging them tightly between a Humvee and a tiny little Ford Fiesta. Buffy took a minute to look around; she knew the general area; they were on the shadier side of town down by the docks, but she'd never spent much time here. They were parked three rows of cars away from some sort of club; a big, dark, industrial-looking building with a long line of figures waiting outside a door that appeared to be manned by some sort of mini-giant. Purple neon letters curled in a tight script over the crowd, glowing bright in the dark.

_Tantric_.

Any sort of ambivalence that Buffy had previously felt about this night flew out the window, and she twisted hard in her seat, ready to punch Spike right in his smug face.

"You brought me to a _sex club_?!" she shrieked.

Spike raised an eyebrow at her. "Usually save that for the third date," he said flatly before a gleam flared in his eyes and his tongue curled lasciviously behind his teeth. "But if you'd rather…"

"Oh my God!" Buffy moaned.

"Relax Slayer," he sighed in exasperation. "It's _tantra_, not _karma sutra_. Bit o' religion out of the east, talks about a higher plane of existence an' exultation, getting closer to God. Little different here in the west, more about a… higher plane of _experience _I 'spose."

Buffy stared at him with wide, horrified eyes, not at all reassured by his words.

"It's not all about _sex _Slayer!" he grumbled, and she got the distinct feeling that he was talking about more than just the club, but he had climbed out of the car and slammed the door loudly behind him, so she could do little but follow his lead if she didn't want to sit in the car like a petulant child all night. Squeezing out past the little red Ford that was boxing her in, she took in the full lot and the long line one more time. Whatever this place was, it _was_ popular.

"Feel free to leave any pointy wooden bits in the car," Spike's voice rumbled from over the top of the deSoto, a curl of smoke following his words. He had lit a cigarette and was sucking hard, his cheeks hollowed as the end glowed bright orange in the dark. He finished the thing on a breath and crushed out the cherry under his heel before speaking again. "Place has a spell on it – no violence past the doors, or you get knocked on your ass. Demons here are just looking for a night out on the town, so play nice."

Buffy frowned at him but unstrapped the stakes at her waist and ankle and reluctantly tossed them into the car. Rounding the front bumper to his side, she got a sort of approving nod for her acquiescence before he led her towards the door of the club. As they drew closer, she realized that the line of people waiting to get in really _was_ a line of demons, all kinds of demons, vampires included, but for some reason her Slayer tinglies seemed to have dimmed. Only a dull warning buzz hummed along her spine where there should have been a lightning storm. Spike seemed to notice her distress and stepped in close to her side in an apparent attempt to reassure her.

"Part of the spell," he said quietly as she followed him past the waiting patrons towards the front. "Keeps everybody calm. You have a lot of power Slayer; you've gotta know that. All you'd have to do to clear a place like this out is walk through the front door. Half these ponces would be runnin' already if they could really feel you."

Buffy didn't answer, but she did roll his words around a bit in her brain. It made sense, what he'd said, and it was… kind of sweet, in a way. A compliment, coming from him, but she wasn't sure… Shaking her head, she tucked the little speech away for later, just in time to realize that they were standing in front of the seven foot tall, three foot wide demon bouncing the front door.

"Back of the line," it gurgled at them, his multiple eye stalks bobbing in Buffy's direction.

"Eyes in your head mate," Spike snarled nastily, his fangs flashing. "Don't much appreciate you ogling my Slayer."

Buffy wasn't so distracted by his proprietary tone and the strange heat that flushed through her veins at his words that she didn't notice how the demon's eyes somehow managed to widen without the benefit of eyelids. "Slayer?!" he yelped. "You brought a Sla…" Finally dragging his eyes from Buffy's chest over to Spike, the demon jumped half a step backward and cringed. "M, M, Mr. Bloody!" he stammered. "My apologies. Of course, Tantric is always happy to serve a Master of Aurelias such as yourself…"

Spike rolled his eyes, stuffing a folded stack of bills into the pocket of the demon's horribly tight checked-flannel shirt. Taking Buffy lightly by the elbow, he shouldered roughly by the bouncer and the loudly complaining line of demons and led her through the darkened doorway.

"Wow," Buffy murmured in a dumbfounded tone.

"What?" Spike asked curiously, looking down at her as they moved along a short hallway towards a slim, red-headed woman behind a counter.

"Mr. Bloody?" she said with half a giggle. "Spike, you… you have clout! You're like a big shot or something!"

"I was," he corrected, and the bitterness and anger that had leaked through his brash tone had her stopping in the middle of the hall. "What?" he asked defensively, a bit more loudly this time.

She just stared. She'd known that about him, hadn't she? He _was _a Master vampire, she could feel it every time he slipped up behind her, and she knew that he was one of the youngest there had ever been. He came from a well-known line, sure, like vampire royalty, but Spike had made _himself_, fighting his way to the top with fists and fangs, and while maybe that wasn't something so admirable in the human world, he was a rock star in his own right. It wasn't all that unbelievable that his name could get him into a demon club ahead of the line. What _was_ a shame was that she'd forgotten. Forgotten, because of the chip, and because of the way he let her walk all over him all the time.

Guilt hit her low in her belly and she frowned, pushing it roughly away. What was she doing, feeling bad that he'd fallen from the hallowed, bloody halls of demon fame? It was a good thing that he had. If he were still him, if he were still the feared and infamous William the Bloody, he would probably have a third jewel in his Slayer of Slayers crown by now, lording over the whole Hellmouth on a throne made of corpses.

"Buffy?"

Worried blue eyes watched her carefully, and she blinked hard.

Maybe not?

"Sorry," she muttered. "I just… sorry."

"Hey," he said, touching the back of her arm with his fingertips, confusion lingering around his mouth. "Slayer, what…" She shook her head and offered up a forced smile, and it seemed enough for him to let it go. Turning, he looked up the hall towards the red-head behind the counter, the one watching them with her brows raised and her lips quirked. "Ready?" he asked.

Buffy smiled back, a real smile this time, and nodded. "Ready."

Spike nodded in return and led her up to the counter, where Buffy recognized the woman manning it as another vampire. Behind her, a honeycomb of shelves covered the wall, each filled with piles of black fabric.

"Welcome to Tantric," she purred cattily, clearly annoyed that they had held her up from the game of solitaire open on the computer behind the desk. "Two?"

"Yeah," Spike replied in answer, though Buffy didn't understand the question. "Just the tops though, thanks pet."

The vampiress smiled and her eyes slid slowly over Spike's torso, and for just a minute Buffy felt that hot burn in her chest again. This might be a sham of a date between the two of them, but from the outside Spike was taken, and she was more than a little pissed that this girl was eyeing him so blatantly. Just as the shock of her own, dare she say _jealous_, feelings hit her, the vampire turned to her and gave her the same treatment, grey eyes lingering on her chest and waist. Turning her back on them, Buffy watched as her fingers danced over the left-most shelves, grabbing a square of folded cotton from the top and the bottom. These she thrust into their hands along with a small brass key before swiveling in her seat and going back to her game.

"Guys on the left, girls on the right," she said in a bored tone without looking up from her screen.

Buffy's eyes widened and panic flooded her. What?! Spike might not be her first choice of… _companion_, but she certainly didn't want to be separated from him in a building full of demons that she didn't know without any sort of weapon. The smile he tossed her then was just a bit wicked as he backed away, towards the door that she only noticed just then. Tossing a glance over her shoulder, she discovered a second one on the other side of the hallway just behind her, marked with some sort of rune that she suspected was like the little white girl shape you found on public bathrooms.

"Spike," she began, a warning clearly audible in her tone as she turned back to the vampire quickly becoming the bane of her existence.

"See you on the other side luv," he smirked. Then he pushed back through the door and disappeared, leaving her completely alone.


	7. Chapter 7

She stood in the hallway for what felt like forever, staring at the door he'd disappeared through with a feeling that was almost like abandonment… and that was weird. Buffy blinked and looked over at the vampire behind the desk, who studiously ignored her, then down at the key in her hands, which was marked with the number seventeen and stubbornly refused to tell her anything more. Resigned to her fate, she turned and pushed through her own doorway, prepared to do battle with whatever was on the other side.

To her surprise, she found herself in a locker room.

An _empty_ locker room.

She looked around in wonder for a few minutes, thoroughly dumbfounded as to why she was standing in the middle of a room with drains in the floor and small square lockers lining the walls, the lights dim on pale blue paint and tile. Moving cautiously down the long bench that spanned the room, she rounded the row of lockers to find another door waiting for her, still and ominous, a dull beat of music coming from the other side. Spinning away from the door, she attempted to catch the breath that suddenly felt stuck in her throat, her heart beating hard in her chest. Purely by chance, her eyes landed on locker seventeen, the number engraved into a small metal plate at the top of the door.

Checking the matching number on her key one more time, she moved tentatively forward, opening the door with trepidation only to find it empty. She didn't know what was going on, didn't know what kind of a place this was that required her to change her clothes, but it was making her nervous. She wanted out of this weird little locker room fast, and to her horror, she wanted to find Spike. She might kill him for this.

Unfolding the black fabric in her hands, she shook out a t-shirt of soft, stretchy cotton, a perfect fit. Darting a quick glance around to make sure she was really alone, she did the only thing she could think to do, whipping off her own shirt and stuffing it into the locker, pulling the black one down over her head. A shudder rippled over her shoulders as the chill air touched her skin, and she quickly tossed her wallet in with her shirt before turning her key in the lock and crossing to the other side of the room, pushing through the door without a backward glance.

She emerged in a darkened hallway, black lights lining the ceiling and shining down with a strange purplish glow. Spike was leaning against the wall opposite her, his arms crossed over his chest casually, a smirk edging at the corner of his mouth though it was clear that he was trying to hide it. He'd apparently switched out his t-shirts, not that she could really tell, and his duster was missing, so when he rolled smoothly off the wall onto his feet and stepped towards her, she could see the muscles shifting in his shoulders, and she wondered if he moved the way he did on purpose.

Buffy wrinkled her nose.

"Come on luv," he said, ignoring the look. "Time for the fun part."

"It's your version of fun that worries me," she grumbled, following him down the short hallway.

As they moved along they found themselves faced with a long table covered in bowls of a thick liquid that glowed an eerie white. Whatever the substance was, it was everywhere, spattered over the floor and the walls and the tabletop, smudges and fingerprints smeared all over the place, and a cold feeling came over her. It was like looking at a crime scene that the color had been bled out of, and her breath caught in her throat.

"What is that?" she asked, and her voice came out in a choked whisper.

Spike cocked an eyebrow in her direction but didn't tease, just deadpanned an answer.

"Relax. It's paint."

Reaching out for a bowl, he dipped two fingers into the substance and they came back out a bright, neon green.

"Woah! How'd you do that?"

Now he grinned, encouraged by her abrupt interest and cautious delight.

"You can do it to," he encouraged. "Try it."

Reaching for a different bowl, Buffy stuck a finger in and pulled it out covered in a hot, electrifying pink. "That's so cool!" Turning back to him, she froze when she saw him drawing stripes over his cheekbones like Native American war paint. "What are you doing?"

"It's what the shirts are for," he answered. Gesturing behind her, he waited until she turned and pointed her to look through the door at the end of the hall. It opened out to the main room of the club and Buffy could see the different patrons, demons and humans alike, passing the doorway, all decorated with bright, vibrant colors. Some had drawn on patterns and strange symbols, others were just covered in swipes and spatters like they had simply flung it at each other with gleeful abandon.

"Oh this is cool!" she grinned. "As long as I don't get it in my hair…" Behind her Spike snorted but she ignored him. "Oo! I like the handprints!" A Riddix demon had walked by the doorway with a blue handprint curling around its hip, and Buffy immediately turned to the table, dipping both her palms flat in the tray of paint that turned pink at her touch.

"Help you out with that..."

Buffy looked up to find Spike staring at her chest, his hands up suggestively and a sneaky glint in his eye.

"Don't even think about it!" she warned, and because of the weird way he'd done it, less lecherous and more playfully flirtatious, like any guy out on a date with his girl, she snapped her own hands out and thumped him squarely in his own chest, making him stagger back a step and leaving two perfect, pink handprints over his pecs. He had laughed, chuckled at her threat, but the smile faded as he looked down at the marks, a strange, almost awe-like expression replacing it that Buffy couldn't read. She thought she saw his eyes flash gold in the dark, thought she heard a low, predatory rumble come from deep in his throat as his gaze darted between her and the hot pink hand prints on his chest, but she shrugged it off, not without significant effort.

Turned back to the paint, she poked around in different bowls to find purple and even some that stayed white, drawing on her own warrior stripes on her cheeks and upper arms, giving herself some artistic slashes across her torso that looked a little like claw marks. It looked pretty cool, and it was actually kind of fun, like adult finger painting, and Spike too had seemed to shake off whatever he was dealing with, painting himself in much the same way with green and blue. To her surprise he had the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, an uncharacteristic display of nervousness, deep thought, and it made her strangely nervous in return. This whole thing was already a bucket of weird, and having him be… _not _Spike… was just making it worse.

"Turn around."

"What?" she asked, jerked out of her musings to find him with her colors, purple and white, on his hands.

"Turn around," he repeated, circling one finger in a spinning motion, and she cast him a wary eye before slowly showing him her back. She felt his fingers dancing over her shoulders, saw him reaching out for more paint from the corner of her eye, and concentrated on keeping her breathing slow and even.

"You're not writing 'kick me' are you?" she asked.

Behind her Spike scoffed and moved lower, tracing a long, straight line down to the small of her back and she struggled not to squirm. "Not that lame Slayer," he muttered, concentrating on the task before him. "All done."

Twisting around, she pulled up the shoulder of the t-shirt and surveyed his job. He'd painted her up like a sport's jersey, writing the word 'CHOSEN' in all caps over her shoulders and then adding a big block '1' underneath.

"Chosen One," she grinned. "Hah!"

Spike smirked back, practically glowing beneath the praise she'd bestowed on him, and something curled oddly in her stomach.

"Your turn," she said, shoving the feeling away. "Turn around."

"Not sure I trust you Slayer," Spike grinned, but he'd turned away even before he'd said it, and behind his back she couldn't stop a smile. "Wouldn't put a 'kick me' past you."

"Hey!" she protested, grabbing the bowl that she'd found turned a gleaming ruby red at her touch. "I'm not in high school anymore!"

For a minute she contemplated her canvas, surveyed the broad, smooth spread of his shoulders and suddenly the thought of them bare under her hands flashed through her mind before she cast it viciously away, horrified by the idea that her mind had gone to all that pale, muscular flesh…

Ugh! What was wrong with her?! Not a sex club her left foot!

For a second she debated naming him the Slayer of Slayers and giving him the number two but it felt too vindictive, too harsh even though it was Spike, and so she quickly changed her mind, dipping her fingers into the bowl and painting him up. Finishing quickly, she put the bowl back on the table and wiped the excess paint off her hands on a piece of provided toweling.

"Oh ha ha."

Spike had twisted round himself to check out the job she'd done and was frowning at his new nickname. She'd branded him MR BLOODY and given him two big, square zeroes – maybe not the cleverest thing, but she'd thought it was funny and his wry glower had her giggling behind her hand.

"Come on," Spike sighed, rolling his eyes at her. "Let's go."

She followed him the rest of the way down the hall towards the open doorway hesitantly, a low, steady beat of music rumbling up through her shoes and setting her skin humming, and as they emerged onto a wide balcony running around the edges of a sunken dance floor her senses were assaulted with color, movement, and noise. Spike was watching her carefully, gauging her reaction as she stepped forward to look over the edge, her hands resting on the railing. Below her dozens of patrons danced, a veritable rainbow of painted color, moving sensuously together as though the music had pulled a thread through each one, every single heartbeat or non-heartbeat dancing in time. She felt Spike step in close behind her, the spell not quite enough to block his powerful signature, and her grip on the railing tightened.

"This place is about heightened senses," he murmured close her ear, sending goose bumps down over the back of her neck as he caged her in, his arms on either side of her as he leaned against the railing. "Demons come here, or white hats like you, anyone with a little something extra." Stepping to the side, he moved in closer, placing his hands on the railing so that their forearms were almost pressed together. "You and me, we're different Buffy. We don't feel things like humans do. That's what this place is all about. So try to relax, yeah? Try to feel it."

She already was.

That was the problem.

She'd been solid, prepped, ready to hate everything about tonight, and already she was off her game. It had started the moment she hit the top of the stairs back at the house on Revello drive, looked down to find him staring up at her as though the she were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, the love that he couldn't possibly generate burning in him like the sun. From there it had only gotten worse; making her feel bad for his lost pride, confusing her with his un-Spike-like behavior, bringing her to this place which was like nothing she would have ever have guessed at, and even worse, was actually enjoying.

And that was bad!

Because it was Spike. A _date_ with Spike.

And more than that, it was the bet.

She was supposed to be focused on winning this thing.

Of course, she'd thought he was going to screw up royally, make it easy on her. She'd never imagined that she'd actually have to _look_ for things that made this suck.

But if that was what she had to do…

"It's not exactly something I can just turn off," she said quietly, forcing more venom into her voice than she really felt. "Dampening spell or not, I'm still the Slayer. And you brought me to a club filled with vampires and demons."

"You're over thinkin' it," he murmured, refusing to rise to her bait. "It's your night off. It's _their _night off. We're all just here to have a good time. You gotta let it all go every once in a while Slayer." Tilting his head in that unnervingly innocent way he had, he looked at her closely before he began to back away, leaving her with one last cryptic warning before he faded into the crowd.

"You'll go nuts if you don't."

* * *

**Hey all! I promised a friend, who is new to , that I would drop a shameless plug for their stories, so if any of you are in to Teen Wolf, go check out UnstableIntention and drop her a review!**

**Hope you enjoyed the update (:**


	8. Chapter 8

It took her a minute to snap out of it and dash after him, unwilling to be left alone in the club. His double zeroes had almost disappeared amongst the bright splashes of paint that was the other clubbers, his shoulders brushing against them gently as he moved in a way that reminded her of a wolf greeting its pack. Some of them ducked their heads and bowed out of his way, some called a greeting or nodded to him solemnly, others just studiously ignored him, but all in all it felt like following a prince into the dark. When she finally pushed her way through the crowd and fell in at his side there was the smallest of grins dancing at the corner of his mouth, even though her presence seemed to ward off any further approaches by the others. Like she'd said, dampening spell or not she was still the Slayer, and whether it was her day off or theirs, they were still keeping their distance.

Rounding the corner of the balcony Spike led her to one of a row of little square tables, pulling out a high-backed stool for her which she slipped onto nervously after a second's hesitation. She didn't like the way she felt with him standing behind her; hyper-alert, the hair on her arms and the back of her neck standing straight up. Knocking on the table twice with his knuckles, he offered her a quick smile and then left her, shouldering his way over to the bar that ran the length of the gallery. She felt almost detached from what was happening around her, like she wasn't herself, and she wondered if it was because she wasn't hating this as much as she thought she would. And that was bad.

Buffy glared hard at Spike's retreating form, trying to figure him out from the set of his shoulders, the way his hips shifted as he moved… Her gaze dropped to the curve of his butt as he leaned forward against the long wooden counter, the thin strip of pale skin at the small of his back where his t-shirt had risen up, and she felt her cheeks flare violently. Turning away, she kept her eyes firmly on the dance floor below, watching a myriad of forms twist and jump and writhe against each other in a horrific, beautiful display of seemingly impossible kinetics set to a surprisingly modern soundtrack. When she felt him come back, felt him sit down across from her on the other side of the table it took a minute before she felt brave enough to face him again.

Spinning slowly on her stool, she found that he'd lined up three tall shot glasses in front of her, keeping three for himself. She wasn't sure what was in them but she was willing to put good money down that it wasn't regular alcohol; it looked like milk that had been dyed blue, opaque and bright, glowing radioactively beneath the black lights that cast an eerie purple-white glimmer over the entire club. Buffy arched an eyebrow at the little glasses, watched Spike's pale, slim fingers dance around the rims delicately as though he were trying to play a tune until he picked the first one up, his elbow resting on the table.

"What _is _that?" she asked, rightfully concerned.

"Not really sure," he replied, contemplating the contents of the glass. "But it's good. You'll like it."

"How do you know?" she asked, her mouth twisting with doubt and annoyance.

"Know you better than you think Slayer," he answered back, confidently if a little disheartened, his smile slipping.

Frowning, somehow uncomfortable with having put the tiniest of frowns onto his mouth, she picked up the first of her glasses and peered into it before cocking her eyebrow at him.

"Cheers luv," he grinned, bringing his glass forward, and after just a second's hesitancy she joined him, clinking the little shots together in a toast before tossing them back.

And _wow_.

That. Was amazing.

It exploded on her tongue like fireworks, light, fruity, bursting with champagne bubbles that went straight to her head. The world seemed to open up around her as all her senses sharpened, clearing away the fuzziness that had seemed to follow her since the dampening spell had taken hold. She could hear, smell, see like she was at the top of her game, could feel it buzzing in her finger tips and taste it, popping and sweet in her mouth. Across the table she could see Spike's pupils blow wide, giving him a reckless and wild look that was like electricity down her spine.

Made her wonder if she looked the same to him.

"Holy cow!" she breathed. "That's awesome!"

Spike grinned, curling his tongue behind his teeth in a way that just _screamed _I told you so. Buffy's eyes widened in surprise and a laugh came bubbling up out of her before she could get a hand over her mouth, uncontrolled.

"Your tongue is blue!" she yelped with delight. "Like, glow in the dark blue!"

He, surprisingly enough, didn't take offense to her teasing and instead chuffed a laugh that was practically a giggle in its own right, and then she _really_ wondered what was in the stuff if it was hitting him so hard. "What are these?"

"Told you, dunno," he said, picking up his second shot. " 'S called Throttle."

"Throttle?" she dead-panned. "That's grossly man-ish."

"You telling me nothin's ever got _your_ motor revvin'?" the vampire purred.

Buffy felt a blush stain her cheeks, felt something electric zip around her nerves as she watched him curl his tongue a second time between strong, white teeth, the edges of his canines just a little sharper than they were before. Blaming it on the little blue drink, she still picked up the second and muttered back stubbornly.

"Nothing wrong with enjoying your work."

"And I'll drink to that," he grinned, clinking his second glass to hers. "To a good rough-n-tumble."

Buffy wrinkled her nose but drank anyway, sipping the blue stuff from the rim this time instead of tossing it to the back of her throat. It tasted even better this time around, what with her already heightened senses, and the little shot, hardly a mouthful, went straight to her head. She felt light, dizzy for only a second before it passed, her whole body thrumming now. She wanted to get up, wanted to move, to fight or to dance, and then she remembered; with Spike, the two were practically one in the same.

The thought crossed her mind that he might be drugging her; roofies or some other weird thing that might be served here in order to stack the deck in his favor, but she thought that his weird sense of slayer-of-slayers honor would definitely cut that probability.

Still, she really shouldn't be drinking this stuff. It was obviously pretty strong, and had an effect that didn't come from something as innocuous as alcohol.

Buffy shrugged.

"One more."

Spike huffed a little chuckle. "Drink to that too I 'spose," he said.

Buffy knew what he meant but chose to misinterpret. "You're a vampire," she replied flippantly. "You always want one more." Still, this time she was the first to lift her drink to his, the chiming clink of glass on glass a crisp and lovely sound in her hyper-sensitive ears.

That last shot had the blood singing in her veins, and as soon as it was gone she jumped to her feet, unable to sit still any longer. Apparently Spike felt the same because he was up right behind her, reaching out and grabbing her wrist lightly, pulling her toward a flight of stairs that led down to the dance floor below. She thought briefly of wrenching out of his grip, but he'd tossed an impish grin at her over his shoulder and curiosity bit at her, his fingers cool and strong against her skin and yet somehow still gentle, caressing. Buffy could feel her heart pounding in her chest, could feel her pulse hammering and she wondered if he could feel it too. If the Throttle was affecting him half as much as it had her, she didn't doubt that he could. God, it was incredible, it was...

"Buffy?"

Buffy blinked, found herself at the top of the stairs with her arms hanging palms out at her sides, her head tipped back and her eyes closed as she breathed in the air of the club, felt the music vibrate up through the soles of her feet. Spike was waiting halfway down the stairs, looking up at her curiously, waiting, and because it felt a little too Cinderella for her she shook off the uber-connection tinglies she had going on and jumped lightly down the steps to meet him. He led her the rest of the way down and she showed a hard, predatory grin as she moved for the dance floor, ready to rock it for all she was worth as the music cranked high and her body began to move in time to the rhythm.

Safe then to say that she was disappointed when a strong, muscled forearm slipped around her waist and scooped her up, spinning her in a short half-arc, turning her to face another stairwell at the back of the dance floor.

"Like your enthusiasm pet," Spike's voice rumbled silkily in her ear as he deposited her back on her feet. "But you look ready to eat those saps alive. Let's try somethin' else first yeah? We've got all night."

She felt too close to him then, with his arm still snug beneath her ribs, his face in the crook of her neck, and his breath hot on her throat. She abruptly flashed back to a spell-induced engagement, cuddling in each other's laps while strong teeth nipped firmly and dark, murmured desires sent heat flushing through her veins. But it had been more than that; _he _had been more than that. He'd been protective, and concerned, and helpful, and… _why_ was she thinking about this?! Willow'd ended the spell and they'd all gone on with their lives like it had never happened, like they hadn't come out of it with lips locked and lingered just a little too long before jumping off of each other and yipping their disgust.

She almost protested in her effort to shake the odd sense of non-loathing she had going on, almost snapped at him to get his hands off her and put her down, but it was over so fast that she didn't even have the time. Spike had turned around again and was backing slowly away from her, his eyes flashing gold in the dark as he disappeared into the shadows of the stairwell. She hadn't missed the smirk that sparked sharply at the edges of his mouth and she wondered briefly why she was always so aware of it; of the smooth, full curve of his lower lip, the way he curled his tongue behind his teeth when he was thinking dirty thoughts, or the way adrenaline spiked in her blood when his canines lengthened and sharped just a little bit. She remembered the way that mouth felt on hers, the way it tasted, and just knowing that she still remembered gave her a headache.

'_You coming_?'

She thought she must have _heard_ the words but it felt more like she'd touched them, like walking through fog, damp and cool on her skin. Shrugging it off, telling herself that it was all just the buzz of the Throttle, that she was hyper-sensitive to his touch because of the three little blue shots, she stepped down into the dark after him.


	9. Chapter 9

Well.

Wasn't going too bad.

It was no use lying to himself. No use pretending that he wasn't nervous as hell. He might've looked easy, might've seemed lax, but if his heart had been able to beat it would've been doing it double-time. When she'd come down those stairs at Revello, so carefully nonchalant, so carefully dressed-down, it had still been like the sun on his face. He'd felt her surprise when he hadn't offered her his arm, when he hadn't opened the door of the deSoto for her, and that was good too. Gotten off to the right foot, got her off balance. Her laughing jag had bucked up his spirit even more - he suspected it was mostly just nerves, mostly just her coming to grips with a situation completely out of the world of expectation, but still… she was willing to let herself laugh.

The Slayer he was more familiar with was back before he could blink.

Pissed as hell.

When she'd confronted him about bringing her to a sex club, he'd thought that maybe he'd ruined everything. Her anger had brought him crashing down to earth faster than any stake pressed to his chest could have, but he counted it as a good thing. It reminded him, reminded him of why he was here, reminded him of the end game. So he'd tried to tease her, to brush away the sudden flaring emotion that had been so absent on the car ride over, where it had been so light and easy with him ignoring her and still so _aware_…

It hadn't worked and so he'd tried to explain, explain about religion and existence and experience, but she'd just gotten more upset, and that in turn had caused something to burn inside his chest that was a little like hurt and a little like disbelief. She'd said she didn't think that he could love, didn't think that demons could _feel_ that way, but being confronted with it so coldly, so directly…

He snapped at her and he wasn't ashamed of it. He didn't think returning bitchiness with a bark was more than was called for, nor did he think that she would get the real meaning behind the words. Still, he'd had to suck down a cigarette before he felt less… jittery. Before he felt steady enough to tell her to leave the stakes in the car, which he knew she had, and to tell her about the dampening spell. She'd reacted more than he'd expected her to, seemed to warm to his little speech, and then even more to the way he'd been shown a little respect. She'd been surprised by it, shocked, and he wondered if maybe there wasn't something else there too. When she'd frozen in the hallway he'd actually been a little worried – he had no idea she'd be so… affected.

At least he thought that's what she was.

Hell, _he _was a little surprised.

With the mixed up way the inside of his head was painted, he sometimes forgot that his was still a name that tasted dangerous on demon tongues. He'd been grateful for a few minutes of peace, a few minutes silence when they'd split at the locker room doors. A few minutes to breath where the orchid and night jasmine scent of her didn't threaten to choke him on top of the hot, salted copper of her blood. He'd practically collapsed against the wall of lockers when he'd got inside, dropping his chin to his chest and heaving a sigh, relaxed for the first time since he'd picked her up. She wasn't watching him, wasn't judging his every move, every breath, and it was sweet.

He'd had to flash his teeth at the Kirval demon across the room who eyed him rudely, sending him scurrying out before he shrugged out of his duster and folded it into his locker, careful not to catch the scarred leather and tear it. His fingers had lingered on the hem of his t-shirt before he pulled it up over his head. Sometimes he felt… smaller without his duster. Not _vulnerable _per se, just… less. And with Buffy, well, no amount of armor was too much armor. 'Specially when the girl could gut him with a word or a smile.

Pocketing his key, Spike stepped out into the hallway and leaned back against the wall across from Buffy's door, the picture of easy swagger when inside his thoughts were careening around like wind-up cars that crashed into some surface only to head off in another direction. It was infuriating for someone like him, who had all the time in the world to go mad and who had long ago coached themselves into a greater semblance of calm. But it was Buffy after all. If anyone could tear him apart one thought, one hope at a time, he thought it might be her.

Spike scrubbed a hand hard over his face.

God, what was he doing?

Once he'd settled on a plan he'd promised himself he wouldn't second guess it, but that was exactly what he was doing. The Bit had suggested dinner and dancing, something to show her that he could be romantic and classy, not so brash and punk rock, but he was trying to do the smart thing by keeping her on her toes. He knew she'd never been to the club before, didn't even know it existed, and there was more than one reason he'd chosen it. One of those reasons was that he'd hoped it would just be _fun _for her, regardless of whether or not he tagged along. She wasn't the type to take a night off, to hunt down a good time, and so he was going to try to give her that. Hell, if he stayed inconspicuous enough she might let herself enjoy the evening.

He wasn't above winning by default.

Friends first and all that bollocks.

But she'd come out of the locker room looking almost relieved to see him, and he'd smirked and it was back to how it always was, his confident front teasing at her resistant one. Half the time he wondered if it was just a game she played to amuse herself; anyone could tell there was heat between them.

He'd been… _encouraged _by her reaction to the paint room. He wasn't sure how she'd feel about getting dirty; for a Slayer she was surprisingly squeamish about her blood and gore. Still, she'd seemed surprised and even a little delighted when the stuff had changed colors under her touch, and had painted herself up with only a token comment about her hair. Done a good job of it too, not that she wasn't always beautiful, but even in girly colors the clawing slashes and warrior stripes she crafted gave her a look that was almost wicked in the dark.

And then she had planted two big, pink handprints on his chest and he'd almost swallowed his tongue.

He knew what handprints meant here. She didn't. He would have told her when she admired the one on a passing Riddix demon but he just couldn't pass up the opportunity to tease her. And he couldn't regret it either, because for a second it seemed like she was teasing him back, not just shrieking at him for pretending to cop a feel, but then she'd shoved him lightly and left those two, perfect handprints on his chest.

He knew his eyes flashed, felt a rumble grow in his chest, but he couldn't help it.

Because here, handprints meant possession. Belonging. It meant you were here _with _someone, and while he'd happily wear those marks for the rest of his un-life, he didn't think she'd feel quite the same way.

He debated telling her. He really did. But she'd kept right on painting like it didn't matter and who was he to spoil the mood? And besides, still evil here.

So instead he'd just turned her around and done the back of her, more to see if she'd let him than anything else. He wasn't really surprised that she did; was almost a bit of a dare for her, turning her back on a master vamp, on _him_. He was surprised that she returned the favor though, and that she kept things so light, so innocuous. There were a lot of ways she could have gone just to be a bitch, but she seemed to have a good handle on herself tonight and that was… pleasant.

Their little conversation on the balcony over the dance floor had echoed much of that. He'd been a bastard and blocked her in against the railing, trapped her, but he'd wanted a moment, just a second of being that close, of almost having her in his arms, and the fact that her heartbeat had picked up and goosebumps had broken out over the back of her neck was just… neat. Still, he'd focused and he'd told her, tried to explain why he'd brought her here but he wasn't sure it came out right. She'd still pushed back, named herself the Slayer and everyone else a demon, still seeing in black and white even though he was trying to show her that there was color in between.

Of course, she wasn't entirely wrong.

As he'd moved deeper into the club he'd been greeted like a long-lost brother, swallowed into the sea of demons who knew him, some even that respected him or with whom he'd made decent friends. He wasn't oblivious to the fact that when she caught up with him the greetings ceased. They knew who she was, and it was… _interesting _to see the separation of work and play.

He'd debated getting drinks while they were in the club. Not many of them were innocent, and some were downright deadly to certain types, but he figured not letting her near the bar at all would be more suspicious than anything, so he left her at a table and went to do the ordering himself. He'd chosen the Throttle because it walked a fine line; she'd feel it but he didn't think she'd be able to cry foul on him or claim he'd drugged her at the end of the night. He didn't want to have to cheat, and he didn't want to give her an excuse to say he did. After answering honestly that he didn't actually know what was in the things, they'd toasted each other with the shots and the world opened up, even beyond their heightened senses. It was as close to a drinking game as he ever wanted to get, but he couldn't knock the results; every sense sharpening, separating so that he could almost feel her laughter on his skin as she caught a couple of giggles at his expense.

He could feel his teeth sharpen in his mouth, hear her blood pick up in her veins, and when she jumped to her feet he thought that maybe now she'd be ready to play. Grabbing her wrist he'd pulled her to the stairwell, marveled at the way her pulse hammered a tattoo against his sensitive fingertips. He laughed when she headed straight for the music, a wicked glint in her eye and a sway in her hips that threatened to rock the dance floor, but he didn't think she even heard him. She was gorgeous in that moment, blonde hair gleaming, strength in her step, but he had something else in mind for them first, and so he swept her up and spun her around to the second doorway, murmuring words in her ear that he wasn't even sure of, too lost in the feel of her against his side, the scent of her in his lungs.

Dropping her back to her feet with well-hidden reluctance, he had spun around and backed slowly into the stairwell, curiosity nipping at him with sharp teeth, wondering.

This whole night. What it meant.

It was all lost on him.

She didn't have to be here. She could have stayed home easily enough, and here, another chance to ditch him if she wanted to. And he wondered, what it would mean if she followed him.

"You coming?" he whispered.


	10. Chapter 10

She caught up with him in the tack room and he could tell that she didn't know what was going on. In truth he was a little surprised that she'd never done this before; it was a kid's thing really, a teen's thing, but she was painfully unfamiliar with the gear that was thrust into her hands by the bouncer manning the shelves. Spike shrugged into his chest harness easily enough, strapped the belts tight around his ribcage before activating it with the large plastic gun he'd been given. The thing lit up with an electronic trill and a flash of blue lights, and he saw recognition finally dawn on her face.

"Wait," she said slowly, "We're not… Are we playing laser tag?"

Spike just smirked and took her gun, touched the ports together so that her chest plate came alive the same way his had, shining a deep ruby red.

"Tough luck pet," he rumbled as he watched her struggle to get all her straps straight, backing slowly towards the heavy door marked with a bright white rune. "You might'a had a chance with me on your side."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded, picking up her gun and looking it over before she hooked her finger through the trigger guard, following two paces behind as he pushed through into the arena.

Spike grinned wickedly, his eyes going gold as the lights fell. "This is a team's game Slayer. You and me?" His tongue curled behind his teeth and he pumped the slide of his gun suggestively. "Different teams."

And then he was gone, pulling the trick any vamp worth his bite could pull and melting into the darkness like he was made of it.

The arena was huge, full of obstacles to climb, leap, or duck behind, all decorated with the vibrant, phosphorescent paint that glowed under the dim black lights and Spike swung easily behind a column, dropped down from the edge of the platform he was on and sprinted to the other side of the room, staying silent and low. He edged calmly past a few others, vampires and demons circling slowly round, but they mostly ignored him, intent on other prey. It was couples here, or groups, and it was more fun to go after each other than the strangers that crept past. Even with the bloody piñata's-worth of patrons slinking around him he could still feel her moving in the dark, catch the faintest scent of her as the air stirred under the huge fans cranking along the high ceiling, and it stirred something in his gut that he didn't want to think about too much.

Bit like hunting really.

It felt the same, and altogether different too.

But it felt _right_, chasing a slayer through the dark. What he was made for. Maybe even _who_ he was made for, if he let himself get poetical about it.

Even if it _was_ just a game.

As he moved through the arena he held his fire, even when red gear loomed large in the dark around corners and behind rock walls. None were her. He didn't doubt that she would be firing on any blue she came across and racking up her points, enjoying the game, determined to hold her own, but he had no interest in the others that weaved or clustered through the compound. No, it was her alone that he was after, and so until he found her he preferred to melt into the shadows and bide his time. He felt like he was circling closer and closer to something strange and foreign, and he was vaguely reminded of the time when, years ago, he had stalked a group of high-schoolers' through a corn maize on Devil's Night and gotten turned around.

Now, like then, he shook off his distraction with no small irritation, charging aggressively across the compound where he leapt easily over an eight foot deep trench and swung around another column, landing on one knee with gun held at the ready, but she wasn't there.

He snarled under his breath as the whisper of her laughter reached his ears.

So.

Baby wanted to play.

Rising slowly to his feet, Spike let his senses soar.

* * *

Of all the things, in all the world that she might have imagined she would be doing with Spike, this was probably the last.

Ok, maybe second to last.

The last was…

Buffy blinked in the dark and shook off the sudden heat that flushed through her cheeks.

Right. So. Laser tag.

She'd never played, even though Xander had tried dragging her and Willow to the arena three towns over several times. The idea had always made her roll her eyes, laugh him off with some comment about guns and boys and playing soldier. It was silly. Why would she want to play war when she already lived it every day? So she fumbled when she'd been handed her gear, hesitated in pulling on the heavy plastic chest plate and looking over the large toy gun in her hands. She might have resisted all together if she didn't think that Spike would tease her unmercifully for it, and in a small way, she found that she didn't really want to ruin what was… _peaceable _between them.

So she'd watched as he disappeared into the dark of the arena, melting into the shadows in that way that he did, and prepared to learn on the fly.

It surprised her that she didn't really have to.

It felt natural, almost right to be hunting in the dark, and as she moved she mused that it probably was. Natural. Right. She was the Slayer after all, and this _was _hunting. With all of her senses blown light and wide, she could easily pick out the demons that moved in the blackness around her but she ignored them. She had a vague idea of how this game worked, and Spike had told her that it was red lights against blue, but after endless nights of counting slays, she found that she wasn't really interested in racking up points. She had a target in mind, a specific target, and so she kept a steady finger on her trigger.

It made a twisted sort of sense really. She'd seen demons play a few games; pool, poker, even pinball, but it was always weird to see. She thought of them as tricksters, schemers, _killers_, and had a hard time reconciling that with more innocent pleasures. They mostly ignored her as she passed, only a few of them glancing at her with confused expressions before slinking away into the shadows. It was unnerving - this separation of work and play. She didn't know how she was supposed to walk around like… she didn't even know. Like they were all ok, like it was totally normal for her to be here playing laser tag with a bunch of demons that she'd have to stake tomorrow if they caught her in a dark alley.

Buffy frowned, crazily irritated that she was dwelling on the existentialism of her job, her life. She was on a date, dammit, even if it was with Spike. She hadn't been on a date in… god, forever. Riley tried, and even though she'd wanted normal, wanted average, sometimes she felt like she was drowning in the mundaneness of it all, suffocating underneath his blocky, soldier's body, the horrible _niceness_ of him. Here, now, there was a fire shooting through her fingertips, a warm, pleasant nervousness in her belly that was keeping her hyper-alert and on her toes, and where it should have been exhausting, too like what she'd done every night for so many years, she found herself tense with excitement as she turned back to her task.

It wasn't hard to track him through the dark. Even without the blue Throttle pumping in her veins and shooting her senses through the roof, she thought she'd be able to track him. He was a Master Vampire after all, one that she'd fought time and again, struggled with as their bodies pressed close, skin on skin. She'd breathed the same air he had, pushed herself up off the same earth as he had, even on rare occasions faced down the same enemies he had, pushed back-to-back, side-to-side. She knew him, knew how he _felt _in the dark, the tall, lean silhouette of him, and so it wasn't hard to circle round the arena with a quiet ease and grace, slipping behind obstacles or swinging easily over noisy, clattering bridges as she kept herself one step ahead.

She could have ambushed him. Could have taken her typical aggressive stance and chased him through the shadows but for once she decided to hold back, decided she'd rather play than just win. It was a teasing, playful, light-spiritedness that had hold of her now, and she knew exactly how to turn this, because she knew Spike. For all his love of the dance he wasn't one for foreplay; he preferred to get right to it, jump in and get down and dirty before he even had half a bad plan.

She knew she could crack him.

It took a little longer than she expected it to. He danced around her for a while; ducking, dodging, weaving around – every once in a while she caught glimpses of his hair glowing like the radioactive mess it was beneath the pale blue-ish lights, but more than anything she could sense him, like the idea of him was solid matter just out of reach.

She knew when he broke, the exact second when he couldn't stand it anymore and came charging across the arena towards her but she held her position, held still as long as she possibly could even though her instincts were biting at her like a frickin' terrier, telling her to move, to run, but instead she tightened her hands around her gun, kept her finger loose on the trigger until the very… last… minute…

She heard him snarl with frustration as he landed in the spot she'd just been, a second too late to catch her, and it had her laughing delightedly as she spun away, disappeared as she put distance between them once more. It wasn't running. It was… _tactical retreat_. She'd swing away and then wait, swing away and then wait, letting him get close enough that she imagined he could scent her, hear her blood pumping as her heart pounded with the simple excitement of it before she bolted. And then suddenly teasing wasn't enough.

She wanted confrontation.

Rough and Tumble.

So she laid her trap.

She'd seen a good place near the far back corner of the arena, high up on a ledge that overlooked the rest. It was a narrow space, blocked off on either end by columns, and all she really had to do was hold her position, wait until he leapt into the tight confines before swinging herself around to land behind him and…

Crap.

So he was better than she thought.

Buffy's finger quivered on the trigger of her gun as she stared Spike down, her aim dead center in the middle of his chest plate. Unfortunately she was in his sights too; somehow he'd managed to anticipate her attack and had twisted round in time to get his gun level with his own target. She could see his eyes flickering gold in the dark, see him smirk cockily as he waited to see what she would do. Slowly they began to circle each other, turning round and round in the narrow aisle, so close their bodies almost brushed, but neither of them lowered their weapons, neither gave. She didn't know what she was waiting for, didn't know what _he_ was waiting for, and when he finally spoke she jumped as if he'd shouted, instead of purring in a low, silky tone of voice.

"Truce then Slayer?" he hummed, and his eyes flicked over to the edge of the platform they stood over, across the wide expanse of the arena where lights flashed and electronic trills and shots sounded. "Could do some damage real damage, you an' me."

"Isn't that against the rules?" she asked, but she felt something spark in her belly.

Spike only grinned, his teeth sharp in his mouth.

"Since when do we play by the rules?"

* * *

**This week people. This. Week.**

**Ugh.**

**Anyway. A sort of fluffy chapter, I wonder how you guys feel about their activity. I thought it was a great analogy, and something I could totally see a demon unwinding with at the end of a long week.**

**Review, review, review (:**


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